


here in the forest, dark and deep

by cloudfree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode: s14e07 Unhuman Nature, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Lucifer gets what he deserves, Mental Breakdown, References to Canon, Spoilers, Suicide, Tentacle porn without the porn, Tentacles, The Empty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 01:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16822768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudfree/pseuds/cloudfree
Summary: i offer you eternal sleep.Best to let sleeping demons lie.





	here in the forest, dark and deep

**Author's Note:**

> The writers of Supernatural are _really _pissing me off. I just wrote this as an exercise. Nothing too big.__ Might add a second part that's more explicit depending on my mood.
> 
> __  
> I've got a lot of fics I need to finish, but I only seem to be writing new ones nowadays and neglecting to finish the ones I already have. I know, I'm sorry - I'll get to them eventually, I promise! Please stick around until then :')  
> 

There is no temperature in the empty. 

Across the barren void, nothing stirs. The outlines of strange, otherworldly creatures jut out against the nothingness, as if they are sleeping under a blanket. Silence reigns. Like a liquid undisturbed, the abyss undulates softly, but doesn’t move. 

A distortion, a sudden movement. Out of the stasis comes a vaguely human form, molding itself back into shape slowly. Lucifer’s eyes glow for a brief second, then he is himself again, charcoal skeleton wrapped with a facsimile of skin and lean muscle. He is calm. 

“So this is where we go,” he muses to himself, “when Dad gets tired of us.”

Back to primordial nothingness. His own voice rings loudly in his head as a silent reminder. 

Nick’s pleas had roused him, Lucifer reflects slowly. Pleas for him to wake up, to come back to him. Even after everything he’d done with him after he’d taken the human’s body for his own. Even after he’d gotten Abraxas to kill his bitch and the sniveling infant that Nick  loved _ so  _ dearly . 

Humans truly are like dogs. All of them are so  _ easy. _ A smirk plays across Lucifer’s lips. 

But he has to admit, he'd shared a special connection with the guy. Something even more than what he and Sam Winchester - _ his true vessel, for pete’s sake  _ \- had. And hell, Nick knew it too. So when Lucifer had been forced out of his body and into this...this place, he’d left behind a bit of his grace in Nick’s body, as a little parting gift. He’d figured it might be useful for when he needed to return to life again, for when Nick realized how insignificant he was and inevitably came crawling back to him. And the vessel hadn’t been one to disappoint. 

Grace-amplified prayers, especially those which have been boosted by your own grace, are a little hard to ignore even when you're dead. 

So the first step of the plan’s worked. Now he needs to figure out what to do next, what to do when he gets out of here, and how even to get out of here in the first place. 

His mind wanders to the earth, where he’d been stabbed by his idiot brother after his son had betrayed him. He wonders where that worthless excuse of a spawn is. Wants to find that little runt and choke the life out of him. It’ll be even easier now that the whelp’s lost his juice.

And those three, those irksome, _exasperating_ morons that turned him against his own father like that, he’s going to bring hell down upon them. Dean Winchester’s blood will be on his knuckles and on his tongue very soon, running in rivulets into the creases between his borrowed fingers. 

And those hands, the ones that kill him? Only the best. Lucifer would never murder one Winchester without possessing the other first. And bonus points if he does it while their faithful pet, that sniveling dog of an angel, Castiel, watches, trapped and doused with holy oil and then set ablaze. Satisfyingly ironic, and just barely short of overkill. Just the way he likes it.

That reckoning will come one day, Lucifer resolves, and it will be merciless. But first, he needs to get out of here. 

Something slides up out of the empty space in front of him. Something thin, vaguely liquidlike, and pointed at the tip. It wavers like a serpent, hooded and hissing. 

He stares at it for a second, only mildly concerned. But before he can react any further, a slimy black tendril clamps itself over his wrist and doesn’t let go. Lucifer hisses between his teeth. 

“What the -” Another one wraps itself around his naked waist. The feeling chills him down to the core. “Stop that.”

He struggles, but the grip is stronger than anything he has ever felt before and refuses to let up. His limbs thrash and flutter. He’s a fly in the spider’s web. “I said - !”

_ Sleep,  _ a voice doesn’t say, and Lucifer stops dead. He watches with cold, transfixed horror as a tendril snakes around his chest, winding around his neck like the noose of a hangman’s rope. It slides damply and smoothly over his mouth, forcing it closed. 

He has to get out of here, he needs to get out of here somehow. His thrashing becomes more furious, his muffled shouts echoing across the empty landscape. Nothing stirs. He is alone.

For the first time since his creation, for the first time since he’d battled Amara with his Father and brothers, all those eons ago, Lucifer is afraid. 

_ What do you want.  _ Lucifer screams in fury, unable to open his mouth. His arms and legs flail wildly but he is held in place. The taste of something he can’t identify sits on his tongue, forced there by his otherworldly gag.  _ Did my father put you up to this?  _

_ God has no dominion over this realm.  _ The abyss shifts and displaces, tendrils appearing out of the rift formed. Something like an arm, long, nightmarish claws tapering to a point, pulls itself up and out of it, with other appendages following close behind, permeating into a matrix of empty space. The shape melds and collapses in on itself, as if filling a mold, and the resulting figure is nothing he could ever begin to understand.  _ You are awake, and you should not be. _

Lucifer lashes out, uncomprehending. His eyes illuminate, a burning red that does nothing to light up the emptiness around him.  _ I have to get out of here. I have things to do. People to kill.  _ But his makeshift chains hold fast. 

_ Ah, the finality of death.  _ The voice echoes snidely, floating around the edges of his conscious. It seems to thrum with contempt.  _ Unfortunately, you will not be allowed to leave. I have already made that mistake once, and I do not care to repeat it.  _ Its appendages wrap around Lucifer more snugly, hardening and solidifying wherever they find grip. 

Irritation, only partly his own, forces its way through his thoughts. Lucifer rages, now almost completely bound and immobile. His form is ensnared thoroughly now, and only his eyes, smoldering with scarlet fury, are exposed. 

_ Release me, or I. Will. End. You.  _

He hears a ghost of a laugh, but no sound can be heard. Amusement that’s not his tinges his thoughts, and flashes of two figures engaging in combat fill his head. Panic grips him thoroughly, but he can no longer struggle, even. His vision blurs. 

_ You cannot end something that never began,  _ he doesn’t hear, and his glowing red eyes flicker and peter out as the swirling, clammy black tendrils pull him headfirst back into the void.

  
  


~~

  
  


Nick prays and prays and prays, but no one comes. 

The floor is still slippery wet with blood in some places, but most of it’s already dry and hard, scraping away on Nick’s fingernails like paint. His hair is mussed up, jeans stained with it as he sobs, great heaving breaths echoing through the silence of the house. Spatters of gore decorate his face, the corner of his mouth, just under his eyes and between his lips. A hammer lies forgotten beside him. 

He can’t think. 

Can’t think because he’s leaking, he’s  _ leaking,  _ except it’s not just the salty tears splashing down his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose, it’s the blood oozing out of the dead man’s skull, the dead man that he  _ killed,  _ and even then it’s so much more than that; his mind is fragmenting and bursting at the seams and he can’t take it anymore, he’s a murderer, a horrible,  _ filthy _ murderer, but all he can bring himself to do is beg for the very thing that did this to him to come back and fuck him over again. 

Coldness seeps into his bones as he lies prostrate in front of Kellogg’s corpse. He prays to Lucifer a few more times for good measure, but doesn’t really expect an answer. In a bid for comfort, he curls up into the fetal position, listening to himself whimper and grovel with an odd, detached curiosity. 

Killing all those people...it wasn’t him, was it? He’d liked it, of course, but it was Lucifer who  _ made  _ him want to kill those things. It was  those _ stupid people  _ who killed themselves, in a way. They wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Wouldn’t give him what he wanted. But then again, he’s never going to get what he wants now. 

Sarah and Teddy aren’t coming back.  _ Lucifer  _ isn’t coming back.

He’s so alone. 

As he shifts slowly, he feels something digging insistently into his thigh. Nick hisses with surprise as he looks down and sees a blot of red begin to spread across the fabric of his jeans. Then he realizes. 

Some part of him reckons vaguely that he might’ve opened the switchblade when he was stumbling around somewhere, but that's not important. All he can think about right now, all he can fixate on, is the mild sting of his wound, how the pain of it’s enough to flood his mind with blessed clarity. 

For a brief, blinding moment, he remembers his family, his friends. His wife, his son. He remembers the people he’s killed. Remembers their satisfying screams, the way their eyes rolled back in their head as they struggled in their death throes. Remembers how he strung them up and bled them out like pigs taken to slaughter. And now, after everything that’s happened, he’s never been more sure of what he needs to do next. The knife whispers to his broken psyche like a benediction.

_ The world doesn’t need any more degenerates like you.  _

Without any further hesitation, Nick impales himself with the blade. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated. Love y'all!


End file.
